


Costumes

by Zaniida



Series: Genderswap FMI [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Discussion, Gen, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, It's ambiguous, Longing, Or possibly just a guy who likes crossdressing, Past Abuse, Zoe Morgan likes to pry, elbows-friendly, gender expression, social pressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: While a slightly wounded Marconi is camped out at Zoe Morgan's house, Zoe starts to pick up on some unexpected qualities.





	Costumes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Triss_Hawkeye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triss_Hawkeye/gifts).



> Second Christmas fic is up! This one's for **Triss_Hawkeye** ; hope you like it!
> 
> Canonically, that isn't how Marconi got the scar, but it seems to fit this piece better than some alternatives I thought up while writing it. Call it a slight AU explanation, I guess.

Being the gal who holds all of the secrets, Zoe is used to dangerous men. Yes, mobsters are a new one, and she’s got John and Harold to thank for having a slightly wounded one camped out in her living room, but that’s not enough to phase her. When you’ve already faced down and even coerced the most powerful men in the city, and learned to talk your way out of nearly any difficulty you encounter, you don’t get intimidated by random criminals anymore.

This Marconi guy, however, intrigues her. And not because of the rough but insincere advances, or the inelegant banter—she expected all that—or even being called “dame” (the novelty amused her). No, the speech is one thing, but she’s been picking up clues from posture, gesture, and expression… and glances.

She crosses her legs the other way, and watches where her guest’s eyes go, and how quickly they retreat. Takes in the almost imperceptible longing.

“You know,” she muses aloud, “I’ve met a lot of men. Plenty of them who can’t keep their eyes off me. But you? You’re the first person I’ve met who’s gotten this fixated on my _dress_.”

Marconi’s eyes jerk up guiltily, and Zoe doesn’t miss the hint of fear.

Hmm.

She runs the stretchy fabric through her fingers. “Got some kind of history with a dress like this?” It’s just a slinky little black number, eye-catching only in its simplicity. The kind of dress every woman should have somewhere in her closet. Maybe Marconi broke up with some ‘dame’ who’d been wearing a dress like this.

The attempt at a scoff, though, comes a beat too late, and feels a little… hmmm. Coupled with the fear… all of a sudden, Zoe wonders whether another woman is even in the picture at all.

Actually giving voice to the notion, though… that’s the kind of line you don’t cross without knowing what’s on the other side. It’ll be a couple hours yet before John clears up the dangers (and he was _very_ clear about staying put until he gave the all-clear); worst case, Marconi has to stay overnight. Making things awkward between them won’t make the waiting game any easier. Besides, she could be very, _very_ wrong about the reason for the hunger in Marconi’s eyes.

Then again, it’s not for nothing that she’s spent her life learning how to ferret out secrets. Another thing she’s learned? _Trust your instincts_.

And she’s picking up, layer by layer, just how much of a trained act all this masculine energy is. The little extra edge to the way Marconi sits—legs spread deliberately wide—and the way the mobster leans in, gestures, smirks. The phrases that have been used tonight, the sexist notions unthinkingly conveyed. Just a hint too manly.

This kind of hyper-masculine strut isn’t too far from the way that some men will try to hide being gay, the _of course I’m normal_ kind of social charade. But, in context, she’s pretty sure by now that the trait Marconi’s hiding isn’t _being gay_.

If she raises the possibility… well, it’ll be uncomfortable for both of them, whether she’s right or wrong. A sensible person would mind her own business. Of course, Zoe hasn’t gotten where she is by being that kind of person. And she rarely acts purely from self-interest. There’s a give and take to these things, and… if she’s actually clued in to the reason for that hunger… well, the discomfort might also offer a form of _liberation_. Eventually, even if not tonight.

“I could be very wrong about this,” she says, keeping her tone quite neutral and giving Marconi an easy out, “but… let’s just say that there are a lot of men who like the way a dress feels. When they’re wearing it.”

Marconi’s face darkens; the sudden urge to bolt is obvious, but Zoe’s impressed that it gets held in check. “Yeah, well,” Marconi returns, “lotta guys are weird.”

“Oh? Is there something wrong with wearing the kind of clothes that make you feel good?” She runs one hand up her thigh, enjoying the slippery feel of the fabric, and takes note of a breath, a little tightening around the eyes. Pain.

Marconi looks away.

Not sure just how far to push right now, Zoe again goes with her gut. “You ever imagine yourself in a dress?”

Vaulting off the couch, Marconi heads for the window. Leans one arm against the wall, and looks out as if hunting for threats. For a long moment, Zoe thinks she really _has_ pushed it too far. Killed the opportunity.

But then, without even glancing her way: “You grow up the way I did, you learn pretty early not to color outside the lines, y’know? Guys and gals don’t get to overlap.”

“And if you got it wrong…?”

A glare—out the window, and, then, at her.

Then a sigh.

A hand, sharply tracing a scar down a cheek. Showing it off, the motion quick, and almost as violent as whatever blade had carved that line.

“Bullies?” Zoe hazards.

“My dad,” Marconi counters. “Caught me trying on my cousin’s panties. I only did that once.”

With that secret hanging in the air, Marconi hesitates only briefly before returning to the sofa and kinda deflating down onto it, face a little clearer, emotions not so strictly concealed. There’s nothing left of the smirk that had been there since this morning.

After a moment, Zoe says, “Some people get stuck on this simplistic view of gender.” She shrugs, eyebrows lifting in sympathy. “I’ve known a good handful of people who wouldn’t fit in either checkbox. And a couple who’d fit in _both_.” It’s one of the few secrets that she doesn’t trade in; the type of people who would use a quirk of biology to destroy a person’s reputation aren’t the type she cares to enable.

Marconi just huffs, gaze going anywhere but Zoe’s face.

“You’ve been away from home a long time,” she says, softly. “And you’re still stuck in that mindset? Unable to let yourself be who you want to be?”

“Nobody wants to be like this,” Marconi retorts, glowering. “Stuck in the middle, not knowing who you really are? Nobody _wants_ this.”

“We don’t get to choose the way we’re born,” Zoe acknowledges. “Only what to do with the hand we’ve been dealt.”

“Well, I don’t got that choice either.” Marconi sucks in another breath. “Even if I wanted to go around pretending– being– _showing_ who I am… _what_ I am… I can’t do that. Not while the Boss’s empire is this shaky. I ain’t stupid; I know there’s a lot of mind games going on, because if the Russians or the Brotherhood got it in their heads to fight us directly, we’d lose. The Boss maintains power because people think he’s got more power than he has. We show a little weakness… that all goes to hell.”

“And strength is being masculine, is that it?”

“Strength is knowing who the hell you are. Being stuck between two worlds… that comes across as a vulnerability, and you can’t tell me it’s not gonna be exactly that. I walk through town in a dress, or makeup, or sway my hips a little too noticeably, and they’ll be all over us like vultures who’ve just been waiting for a kill.”

It’s harsh, but the point is valid: Marconi walks in a world where there’s no freedom to live by your own terms. It’s hardly the only subculture where being true to yourself is a danger; it’s just more directly lethal than most.

Even so, she could offer… but would she be doing a favor, or just nudging open a crack that could bring down everything Marconi has worked for, through all these years of deprivation? She can’t be sure of the outcome.

Still, that’s not her choice to make.

“Well, we’re still here for a few hours,” she says, coolly, leaning back in her chair, “and the door’s locked, and nobody’s looking. I’ve got a whole closet full of dresses to change into. And your waist may be a little thicker than mine, but this fabric’s pretty stretchy. In case you wanted to give it a try.”

She looks away, lets Marconi have the privacy of being unobserved while some key decisions get made. Wonders if even raising the offer came across as insulting.

“Yeah, all right,” Marconi mutters finally, eyebrows conveying some complicated, quicksilver emotions. “One time. Long as I’m here.”

 

The fabric glides smoothly down two rather hairy legs as Zoe helps Marconi with the fitting. She thinks back on some tricks she’d learned—the summer before her more voluptuous genes asserted themselves—to make her bust look bigger, show more cleavage. It’s a simple trick that she doesn’t have the supplies for, and she sighs at not being able to offer even that much to her guest.

Of course, she still isn’t clear on whether or not Marconi’s trans. This might be just about the clothes, in which case the cleavage wouldn’t be welcome. Besides, it’s not the best time to try to pin down any labels. Not when self-assertion is such a new pleasure for the poor guy.

Either way, Marconi looks damn good. Despite the self-consciousness. Little bit of helpless wonder in the eyes at the view that shows in Zoe’s full-length mirror.

Zoe grins, and holds up a pair of red heels, dangling by the straps. “Care to see if some of these shoes might fit?”

That smirk is just starting to hint at a return.

**Author's Note:**

> I never realized how difficult it is to avoid using pronouns without either (a) repeating the character's name a lot or (b) using several different names/titles/descriptors (the mobster, her guest, the short guy, the guy with the scar, etc.) -- and even some of those options betray a clear gender.
> 
> I left in "guy" two times, the first one before there's any question about Marconi's possible gender, and the final one for a few kinda overlapping reasons, including calling some attention to the lack of gender pronouns, for those who missed it. I don't know if my intentions there succeeded.
> 
> Note that this could be a perfectly cisgendered male Marconi who simply wants to enjoy wearing female-coded clothing; while it's strongly hinted that Marconi is trans here, it's not definitive. I considered making it definitive, but decided to leave it more ambiguous, as better expressing the core idea.
> 
> But, because of this, I don't know if this fic technically meets the Bechdel-Wallace criteria or not. Or whether it's actually a Genderswap fic or not. I'll still add it to the Genderswap FMI series because it fits in with that general idea, but just bear that in mind.


End file.
